Ben Marcus-illogical-inspired-writing.

                   
I’m sitting on your yard sale couch,
top teeth over my tongue.
It feels burnt from yesterday’s tea;
or perhaps, burn-ing-
like the sun’s solar energy supply-
a radiance burn-ing towards annihilation.
Sometimes science secludes me.
But indigo ribbons of rain say
that fragments of fragments of ghosts
decay into turquoise dissipation.
But I am not a nihilist.  

 

I stood on a glacier in the middle of July,
the slippery white snow reminded
me of your albatross scars.

 

I adopted a kitten with no mother.
Mostly,
we have a similar hair color.
And I called you up to
discuss postmodern discourse.
We decided to not be alone now.

 

We have curated a compilation of
Polaroid pictures that hold looks of love.
Milky images enshrining delicate eyes
and smiles as wide as the sea.
I show you the third one,
and you tell me
that my hair smelled of peaches that day.

 

That’s when I didn’t forget
about the sun’s
burning by some divisible process;
as we all snap
Polaroids and wear peach-scented hair.
But we’ll all look at each-other with
delicate eyes and wide-sea-smiles
and work to devise the divisible for sunrise.